Cold as Ice
by dauntlesszemrys
Summary: John worries for Sherlock. What is the ethereal man hiding? Why is it so damn cold in his flat? Vamp!Lock AU.


John's POV

John woke up to the sun shining through the windows. The light streams bounced off a chair and hit the corner of his simple full sized, oak, navy sheeted bed. The room was cold. Now that he thought about it, the room was freezing, like death itself held the entire flat in his icy grip. John shivered involuntarily and sat up out of the semi-warm covers to find a pair of grey sweatpants and his favorite cream jumper. Another shiver ran through John and he growled at his body betraying signs of weakness. Nipples tightened against his woolen jumper and he bit his tongue. Why in the hell was the flat so cold? What was Sherlock doing that the atmosphere had to feel like a giant meat freezer? The army doctor walked the cold floor down the stairs into the sitting room to get an eyeful of pale, carved, consulting detective.

Sherlock's raven curls spilled about his face like a halo, highlighting those delectable cheekbones. Those wild, blue-green eyes were closed behind nearly translucent lids. His chest was carved, much to John's surprise and satisfaction. Pectorals and abdominal muscles were strong and tight, as if the flesh had been pulled taught over steel. He only wore a pair of black jeans and his hands rested under his chin. Why was he shirtless, giving off no impression that he had registered the temperature? For once, Sherlock looked truly dead. Of course, his skin was always pale, his actions always abnormal, and brain working up a storm in the strangest ways.

This shouldn't have caught the doctor's attention, but it did. It was simply TOO weird. Sherlock may not have been entirely human mentally, but he was certainly human physically. John wondered if… no he couldn't be. Sherlock couldn't be dead. John didn't think that a man as alive as Sherlock could ever be dead. John let his instincts takeover and slowly he knelt to the floor and reached to Sherlock's wrist with two fingers. His warm fingers almost reached the other man's pale, cold, veiny wrist when, in a flash, a hand gripped John's own wrist. It was tight and unforgiving. It was the grip of a man who was wise beyond his years and cautious of the world. Sherlock looked feral and agitated, but John could've sworn the detective's beautiful eyes were red for a split second. John looked down at his wrist being held in a death grip by long skeletal digits.

"John, what are you doing up so late? Ah, no nightmares then," Sherlock said, unwrapping John's tanned wrists from his icy hold.

"Sherlock, you have to be freezing! How are you not shivering it's practically below zero in here!" John stood and shifted the thermostat to a more suitable temperature for human beings. Sherlock jumped up in a flurry of spindly limbs and paced the flat to the window. John often wondered about his mysterious flat mate. What secrets could the mad genius have? It was obvious that a man such as Sherlock would have a few secrets. John found his laptop and flicked it open. The screen flashed to life with his blog still open. He opened another tab and googled Sherlock Holmes, just like he had the first time they met. The same things popped up; his blog, a few newspaper articles, and nothing more. Was that Mycroft's doing? Had he somehow managed to wipe his and his little brother's histories from any computer, paper, or public office?

Sherlock slumped into the chair opposite John and had a strange expression on his face. One that John would equate with desperation, hunger, and fearful realization.

"Sherlock, are you alright? Is there something on your mind?" John felt a pang of concern for the man opposite him. John loved Sherlock in every interpretation of the word. But, most of all, he loved the gorgeously brilliant man with a passion much alike to doomed characters in romance novels.

"Yes. I need to leave." Sherlock's voice was deadly and uncharacteristically wavering. The ethereal man stood quickly and ran into his room, only to emerge seconds later in a maroon shirt and jacket. His long coat was slung onto his shoulder and he leapt out the door with minutes to spare. John was completely dumbfounded at how fast Sherlock could move. It made sense somewhat, given his graceful form and low BMI. What was eating at the detective? This was strange behavior, even for him. Rarely did Sherlock storm off without asking John to come with him, or informing him to stay behind. John had an idea of how to figure out this particular problem, and he didn't want to. Maybe he could observe Sherlock for two days, and if things got stranger, he would make the call to the one person Sherlock absolutely couldn't stand. Mycroft.


End file.
